


don't burn out

by bluecharlotte



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Confessions, Crying, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Islamophobia, Niall-centric, OT5 Friendship, Panic Attacks, Relapse, Sad Niall, Secrets, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Take Me Home Tour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecharlotte/pseuds/bluecharlotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall feels like an unfettered hot air balloon sometimes, slipping slowly higher up and away, but he might be imagining it and he’s afraid of putting it into words, even to the four people who feel most like home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. starting

It creeps up on him, as most things do.

Until a few months ago he was just being himself, and he had four wonderful lads to keep him together. It was okay that they thought he was an idiot sometimes, because Louis dug at him for laughing and laughed along anyway, and when he talked about food Zayn mumbled the fondest objections, and Harry’s hugs welcomed him without words. They were always there for his panic attacks, too, even when he was red in the face and teary-eyed with embarrassment. Early on it was easier than any friendship he had ever known—so easy, in fact, that when Liam finally gained enough confidence to yell him awake in the morning with promises of pancakes, that was all Niall needed to know he would be okay.

It’s not so simple anymore. He knows, of course, that the lads wouldn’t judge him for anything. It’s not about their friendship, not really.

No, it’s about publicity, the stupid _fame_. It started to catch up to him around the start of their second tour, and without even being aware of it he was trying a little harder each day to measure up to his shadow, to be the best version of himself.

In a way, nothing’s really different. He still eats everything and laughs too much and moans about missing home and pints of Guinness; he still breaks awkward silences and jumps too high on stage and raises a hand high in the air when overeager female interviewers ask _who’s gonna take me home?_

And he isn’t _lying_ , not exactly. He would never lie to the lads, not on purpose, or at least he’d like to think so. But it’s starting to feel like an act. Trying to be his “best” self was good for him at first, but at this point it’s become a kind of denial, a locking out of all negative thoughts. Whenever he starts to freak out nowadays he finds he’s a little meaner to himself in his head, shoving it all down with more and more disgust. He’s got no right to panic, does he, to feel self-conscious or claustrophobic or afraid, because the others have been dealing with the fame for just as long and they’re perfectly fine! They’re _great_ , is what they are, joking around on the buses and coming to life every night, distracting each other (distracting _him_ ) so they won’t chain-smoke into oblivion or post inappropriate shit on Twitter when the hate hits too close to home.

Okay, so they aren’t always okay, but he’s _different_. He’s just…he’s _Niall._ He has to be okay for everyone else. At some point it became the norm. Each of the other lads comes to him sometimes when they’re overwhelmed, just like he used to go to them, and he sees in their eyes that he’s an anchor. He’s _safe_ for them, unchangeable. So he pushes down the fear and gets really good at little white lies, even as he finds himself losing sleep and digging his nails deep and deeper into sweaty palms when the world is too much for him and he can’t quite calm his thudding heart.

The first time, it’s July in Toronto, and they’re halfway through the North American bit of Take Me Home. Niall tells himself it’s an accident, and it really is.

He’s lying awake again at half four in the morning, alone in a hotel room and furious at himself. All the others are most definitely fast asleep in the bus like good lads, knocked out after a long show and a good two hours of drinking and talking nonsense on the bus couch, but Niall had to fucking distance himself again, and so instead of familiar snoring all he hears is the annoying buzz of the air conditioner and a distant echo of Louis’ unanswered question: _Where y’off to, Nialler?_

He needs to be up in less than three hours for an early photoshoot, and he’s running on two hours of sleep as it is, but he’s trembling with a sick combination of exhaustion and adrenaline that he can’t shake. He’s already tried wanking (no libido to speak of) and music (two playlists have failed), so as a last resort he’s been watching the ceiling, hoping his mind will shut down.

After a few more aggravating minutes, he gets up in a huff for his fourth cup of water. It’s not much, but Niall has never been patient, and it’ll take him away from the endless temptation that is his phone. There’s no reason not to.

It’s a nice hotel, though—he doesn’t remember the last time it _wasn’t_ —so the bathroom cup is actually a glass. And his hands haven’t gotten any steadier as the night has gone on, so he was bound to drop it at some point.

“Bloody fucking _shit_.”

The shattering glass makes him flinch and step back, heart pounding in his ears. He drops to his knees in a scramble to clean away the mess, and his hands are so unsteady that he almost drops the base of the glass and a handful of pieces before they even reach the trash bin. It’s like the broken shards are proof that there’s something _wrong_ with him; he may be alone in a hotel bathroom in Canada, but the whole world could be watching with how fast he picks them up.

When it happens, the first thing he notices is _there’s blood on the floor_ , even though he’s still holding the shard that he has inadvertently pressed into his right palm.

The second thing he notices is the pain, and then he isn’t noticing anything at all. It clears his head and pays his dues, and maybe he chases after it, gripping the shard tighter for a second and feeling out the burn, but the indiscretion hardly lasts a second before survival instincts kick in.

Niall wraps a towel around his hand and carefully clears away the glass, willing himself to forget about the bloody gap in his skin. When he gets back into bed, he finds the tension is gone; he’s sleeping like the dead within minutes.

That’s how it starts.

He gets babied the whole next morning. The lads and the crew subtly and not-so-subtly check his injury every five bleeding seconds, making wanking jokes because, as Liam says, “at least it’s not your left hand, mate,” and it’s nice. It _is_. But the truth still burns in his gut, even as he valiantly tries to convince himself that the whole thing was a sleep-deprived dream.

He gets good and drunk after the show in Minneapolis, and in the morning Louis and Zayn watch in silence as he pours himself a bowl of cereal, looking at his sunglasses and each other like they don’t know if it’s appropriate to crack jokes. The strange tension in the bus combined with his pounding headache makes it all too clear to him that he can’t rely on booze all the time in good conscience—and he needs something to rely on. He still hardly sleeps, and the panic keeps sneaking up on him in crowds and elevators, even during a couple signings, and he loves his life but not every goddamn _second_ of it, and he can’t forget how broken glass took that suffocation away in a heartbeat.

They’re in the bus leaving Kansas City on the 19th when Niall finally loses his resolve. He watches fondly as Harry nods off on him during _Pitch Perfect_ , head buried in a pillow that he’d thrown over Niall’s lap. Niall wishes he could join him—he _should_ , since it’s past three in the morning—but a familiar bristling under his skin is making him restless. Only when Haz starts obnoxiously snoring does he take his chance.

Telling himself it’s just because of the snoring, he slides out from under Harry and his pillow and steps over to Zayn’s bunk. He’s been turning this over and over in his head for days, thinking about _where_ s and _how_ s and _when_ s, but in the moment his mind is strangely clear. He’s hardly even breathing, afraid that any sudden movement will change his mind.

He still fumbles a little, of course, as he searches through Zayn’s toiletries for a disposable razor. Despite everything, he can’t help but worry that someone will stir, that Zayn will notice the razor missing even if he never uses his disposables. But when he finally has it on hand, its blades glinting at him in the dark, the worry is replaced by conviction. He slips into the tiny bathroom, flips on the light, and turns away from his pale, scared reflection.

The walls close in on him a little as he struggles to pry out a blade, and it’s tiny and so _so_ sharp when he finally gets it, and his left hip stings like hell when he manages more than a scratch, but the relief is overwhelming, like he’s finally grounded in something he can control, in penance for all of his worries and fears.

He presses three more cuts into his hip, mesmerized by the way his skin parts for the blade. It’s addicting, more than he was expecting—more than a lot of things, really—and _fuck, this can’t be happening_.

It was one thing when it was broken glass and he could tell himself it was an accident. But there’s no way around this one; he’s been lying to his four best mates, and he just fucking _cut_ himself, and this doesn’t make sense at all, doesn’t line up with the image of _Niall Horan_ he has perfected in his head.

_Where y’off to, Nialler?_

The strangest part is he’s felt great for most of this tour, laughing and dancing and loving with his whole being as always, tackling his boys and mumbling nonsense in their ears and watching them grow up a little as they all work on the new album in hotel rooms. There’s no one thing that’s wrong, and yet somehow everything is still _too_ _much_ , from video games to red carpets. He feels like an unfettered hot air balloon sometimes, slipping, slowly, with every performance and every _we push_ , higher up and away, but he might be imagining it and he’s afraid of putting it into words, even to the four people who feel most like home. He’s _so_ afraid, apparently, that laughter and alcohol—and now, he hates to think, razor blades—are the only tools he allows himself to tame the beast in his head.

After a long moment of indecision, of wanting to try it again, Niall pockets the stolen blade and steps out of the bathroom. He immediately feels like an intruder on the bus; Harry is snoring on the couch with his mouth open, there’s a hand and a foot sticking through the curtains of Louis’ bunk, Zayn’s hair is messier than he’d ever allow while awake, and Liam’s brow is furrowed like he’s having a nightmare or a confusing wet dream. It’s clearly a shared space, a _trusting_ space, and that rules him out. He’s not sharing anything with them, not right now. Hell, he fell asleep with his sunglasses on after he got drunk in Minneapolis just because his eyes were red and he didn’t want anyone to think he’d been crying.

The worst part is that he _knows_ they wouldn’t have judged him if he was. (Okay, so maybe he was.) He knows that they care, that they would help, that it would stay between them. It’s not about _trust_.

It’s just that he’s gotten so used to being treated like he’s invincible.


	2. drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall barks out a loud laugh, looking over at his idiot of a bandmate. Zayn is looking at him strangely, and he seems far too serious considering what he just said, so Niall tries for comforting: “Hey, s’alright mate, they’re fuckin’ addictin’ as shit. Can’t do much ’bout that, can you? Some things, you jus’…y’can’t quit ’em.”

Niall navigates the next day on autopilot. He wakes up with blood on his shorts, pretends to be asleep when they get to their Houston hotel, and sneaks out to buy Band-Aids while the lads are in a heated discussion about Comic-Con 2013 (he’ll use the plasters _once_ , he tells himself, and almost believes the lie). The only time he says anything of substance all day is at their radio interview at six, and even then he only speaks when their interviewer asks him a question, which of course is about being Irish. He excuses his silence by telling everyone he’s tired and eating with extra gusto, even though he hates himself for the lie and can hardly stomach the bland barbecue they get for dinner.

The next two weeks are more of the same, passing in a strange sort of blur. The days should be good days, _great_ days, and they _are_ , but he may as well just hire somebody else to play Niall Horan, because even the most mundane conversations with his bandmates are starting to feel insincere.

The worst part is that he has always craved attention when he’s having a bad day—anyone who knows him at all knows that—but this is something different, something _shameful_ , and he doesn’t want to advertise the fact that he seems to be losing it. So instead he stares a little too long at sharp objects and hates and _hates_ himself for everything: for lying, for hiding away in hotel rooms, for hurting himself, even for feeling like shit in the first place.

And it’s not every night, not even every _other_ night, because he really doesn’t like doing it and he knows the lads always, always help, even without realizing it. But he cuts himself a good half dozen times in those first two weeks, even once on the bus when, after a show, Louis shows him a picture of a fan’s sign, a picture of newborn Theo that Niall _hasn’t seen yet_ because he’s so bloody caught up in himself. (He cuts deeper that night, and the worthlessness still threatens to swallow him whole.) He keeps telling himself _this is the last time_ and _no one will ever have to know_ and _just one cut, that’s all_ , and he wants so badly to stop, but he just _can’t_.

Before he has a chance to breathe they’re in a San Jose hotel, and tomorrow night is the 80th or 90th concert of their second tour, and he may restrict himself to one or two or three cuts at a time, but they’re already adding up on his left hip like a fucking crosshatch. He feels even worse because Harry asked him twice today if he was okay, like there was a chance he’d say no. It’s disconcerting; that means he’s done something wrong, something _suspicious_ , and he has no idea what it is.

Tonight he’s in his room with Zayn and Louis. They’d all refused to leave Zayn’s side after the terrorist signs at the concert, and Niall’s room was the closest to the elevator. Harry and Liam regretfully left for the hotel gym after giving Zayn extra hugs, and their absence has left Niall feeling lost and inadequate, unable to fix this. Liam has always been better at this type of thing, at reading Zayn when he’s down.

Niall’s had a few beers to take the edge off, enough that he forgets not to tip his chair back on its hind legs and almost falls through the open doorway behind him. His beer nearly spills all over the balcony.

“I’m a lil’ tipsy turvy,” he slurs through a smile, and Zayn coughs out a laugh beside him, smoke rushing between his fingers in uneven streams. It’s the beginning of an all-out coughing fit; Niall can tell from the slight panic in Zayn’s eyes when can’t seem to get a full breath. He reaches over to put a hand on Zayn’s shoulder, settles for a knee when he misses. A grateful hand wraps around Niall’s wrist.

“ _Really?_ ” Louis drones airily from inside. “I’d never suspect that of you, Nialler.” He had refused to go outside with them, instead rolling all over Niall’s bed, scribbling around the tattoos on his right arm, high as fuck (or higher than Zayn, anyway; Lou packed two big bowls and Zayn had maybe four hits altogether).

 _Probably planning more tattoos_ , Niall thinks, wondering for the hundredth time how Louis managed to completely change his mind about them.

Zayn is taking shallow breaths and maybe squeezing Niall’s wrist a little too tight, but he doesn’t mind. He deserves it for making him laugh on an inhale.

“You should really quit,” Lou says when the coughing finally dies down. Zayn shrugs, probably afraid he’ll start another fit if he speaks.

Niall concentrates on the pressure on his wrist and thinks about Zayn—who loves with fierce loyalty, who takes everything to heart, who gets down on himself for every little mistake—getting death threats over something he can’t and shouldn’t have to change, and yeah, maybe Zayn _should_ quit smoking, but he deserves the habit, the escape, more than any of them. _He has a reason to hurt himself_ , Niall thinks darkly. _Islamophobia and racism are real problems. He wasn’t given a fair lot. What’s my fucking excuse?_

“Oi, weed’s cheaper,” Lou is saying, undeterred by Zayn’s silence. “You oughta join the dark side.” _Zayn’s already in the dark with you, Lou_ , Niall would say, if he weren’t so preoccupied trying to remember where he left his (Zayn’s) razor last.

Zayn’s next words come out muffled around his cigarette as he takes a drag, sounding like _fucky no lost doors_ until Niall connects it to that stupid taco commercial and _por qué no los dos?—_ why not both? Why not fucking both?

It’s great, it’s funny, how bad Zayn’s Spanish is—of course it’s funny he’s always thought it was funny why wouldn’t it be funny—and Niall barks out a loud laugh, looking over at his idiot of a bandmate. Zayn is looking at him strangely, and he seems far too serious considering what he just said, so Niall tries for comforting: “Hey, s’alright mate, they’re fuckin’ addictin’ as shit. Can’t do much ’bout that, can you? Some things, you jus’…y’can’t quit ’em.”

So maybe he’s had more than a few beers, more than he should’ve, but he takes another swig for good measure, because that’s not something he’d usually say aloud, especially not how he did, no joking lilt to his voice.

Zayn watches him and the can in his left hand carefully for a long moment, and Niall looks right back, knowing that avoiding his eyes would be a dead giveaway. _Only Zayn_ , he thinks, _always worried for everybody else_. It feels like they’re suspended midair indefinitely until Zayn breaks the stare to take another drag. He finally speaks as he ashes the cig, words softened by a fond smile and by the smoke escaping his lips: “ _Course_ you can, Niall. I’m just lazy as fuck. In’t that right, Tommo?”

“Abso- _lute-_ lay,” Lou calls back, and Niall’s certain he’s been imagining things. Zayn’s just adding another item to their admittedly long list of _weird things Niall says when he’s drunk_. That’s all this is.

Watching the last of Zayn’s smoke float off the balcony, Niall exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wishes the smoke would curl around him instead, weigh him down, like Harry’s head on his lap or Liam’s hand on his shoulder. He notices that his hand is back on his own knee and doesn’t remember Zayn letting go, has to stop himself at the last minute when he almost reaches out again.

Instead he looks up at him and grins, making a face, and the way Zayn’s eyes brighten when he looks back is enough to keep Niall from slicing himself open again later that night.

~

A few days later they have a free day in Vegas that they’ve been looking forward to since the beginning of July. They have a whale of a time, swimming and drinking and shopping and sneaking around. It’s a beautiful, lingering day, and Niall loves it, loves seeing the lads love it—that is, until around four in the afternoon.

It’s definitely over 38 Celsius, but Harry insists on going into a vintage boutique shop on the outskirts of the strip, because he’s _Harry_ and he likes to try on hats and talk to strangers, and Louis only encourages him, so that’s that. The three of them walk in and there’s barely any temperature difference, just a huge fan blowing from a corner, and the lad behind the beat-up counter is sweating through his UNLV tank top, and he has these obvious self-harm scars all over his biceps.

At first, seeing the scars makes Niall feel less alone, but it becomes clear as they chat with him that the two of them have nothing in common. Joseph is stuck in Vegas with his ailing parents, paying his way through college, clearly wearing clothes years old. Niall, on the other hand, is standing there in ridiculously new shoes, trying on cheap rose-colored sunglasses, and watching two other members of his world famous boy band shove wide-brimmed hats onto each other’s heads.

Just as Harry and Louis are leaving, Niall walks up to the counter to buy a pocketknife. His skin is crawling and he can’t quite decide where to look and it’s getting a little hard to breathe, so he’s not really surprised when Joseph gives him a weird look.

“You okay, dude?”

“Course I am, mate,” he grins back. The guy has the balls to fucking _frown_ at him, so Niall just grabs the knife, mutters “s’alright, keep the change,” and charges out of the store after Harry. He’d given him a hundred, but it was probably for the best.

He gets absolutely plastered that night, mainly as a distraction. He hasn’t hurt himself for at least a few days (he’s been trying a little harder since Zayn’s _course you can_ ), but tonight he really _really_ wants to, because even _now_ , too drunk to walk in a straight line, all Niall can think about is how he’d been comparing himself to someone with serious problems when he’s just an attention-hungry rich white kid. What is he getting out of hurting himself, anyway? The satisfaction of having a secret? It isn’t even a big deal, what he’s been doing; it hasn’t been a month, and it’s only on his left hip under his boxers, a couple dozen fading lines no one will ever see. It’s just a passing thing. Right? He’s sure he’ll stop soon. They’re not even that deep; he could cut deeper. Not that he wants to. (He wants to.)

It occurs to him that although he’s on a mission to get drunk, drunker, and drunker still, just to forget how fucking _pathetic_ he is, it might not be working. Well, not the drinking. He’s drunk. He’s definitely drunk. But usually he’s happier, by now. Usually he wouldn’t have such a good memory.

Well, he did forget a few things. He doesn’t really remember where they ended up going, club or pub or whatever, and he isn’t sure how drunk the other lads are, or even _where_ they are. Liam is with him now, because he has one kidney and he gets off on taking care of people. Niall knows that. He just isn’t sure how they got back to the hotel so fast. He vaguely remembers ignoring Harry in favor of more shots and more dancing, because Harry was acting all weird instead of encouraging him like he usually would, and maybe acting oblivious on purpose was a bit rude, but it was only because he was pretty sure his dad texted Harry about watching out for him again.

(That doesn’t make him feel shitty at all. God no, never; Niall Horan is fucking _invincible_.)

“Oh, invincible? I see how it is, Niall.” Liam squeezes him with the arm already around his shoulders, and Niall’s too floppy to squeeze back. “Whatcha gonna do, teach us to leap tall buildings in a single bound?”

“Well o’ course, I’d never leave y’ lads out. B’really, I…I’m the most vincible one here.” Liam chuckles, and Niall knows it sounds like he’s slurring, but he realizes after the fact that he’d actually thought _vincible_ was a word when he said it, and that’s sort of sad but so, _so_ funny, and he laughs so hard that he nearly falls over from the force of it. Liam’s the only reason he doesn’t pass out on the spot.

And hey, _the spot_ is in an elevator. When did they get to the elevator? Wasn’t Niall stumbling down an alley with someone a few minutes ago? How did Liam even press the button with Niall falling on him? And why’s the carpet so ugly? He tries to remember, tries to ask, but his head hurts where it’s pressing against Liam’s collar bone and the words get caught on his tongue, and it’s like he’s listening to someone else talk when they finally tumble out.

“Sorry I drink s’much Leeyum.” In seconds, he’s nearly in tears. “I’m rully sorry, ’m a fuck—” He hiccups, his vision blurring. “A fuckin’ stupid bastard.”

“Hey, no, Niall, you’re fine, alright? You’re fine, don’t worry, like. Don’t be sad. You’ll feel better tomorrow. I promise.”

Liam’s arm was already a reassuring weight around him, but now Niall’s enveloped in an all-out bear hug, the kind he loves most, and he thinks maybe he threw himself into it, but there are two arms holding him tight now, a mouth at his ear and a low voice mumbling placations he doesn’t try to understand, and Liam’s so warm and solid and everywhere, and _don’t be sad_ , he really said _don’t be sad_.

Something huge swells in Niall’s chest, a combination of shame and overwhelming fondness. Helpless, he fists a hand in Liam’s shirt and squeezes his eyes shut against the jut of his collarbone. A line of moisture burns its way down to his chin and hangs there, waiting to fall.

_Bloody hell, what’s wrong with me?_


	3. lying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think you’re getting wasted to avoid your problems and using the booze as an excuse to keep us from asking what’s wrong. And you think we care about you so little that apparently, in our minds, all this”—Harry sweeps his hands out in a grand, furious gesture—“could be part of some fucking cartoon, ’cause you’re the Irish one, and puking all over your best mates, that’s just what you do for fun, right?”

When Niall croaks awake the next morning, his first thought is that _wow, beds are nice_.

Then it hits him. Hard. He has a blinding headache and his mouth tastes like something furry died in it and his eyelids are probably glued shut, so he lies there for a few seconds groaning to his heart’s content, certain that it can’t possibly get any worse.

That dream goes out the window when a certain someone sharply clears his throat from beside the bed. Niall’s eyes startle open, and sure enough, there’s Harry, looking down at him with a stern, weary expression that tells him he’s absolutely fucked.

He opens his mouth to ask about the others, thinking that maybe Harry would be nicer if they were in the room, but all that comes out is a painful croak. A glass of water and a couple pills appear in his hands by magic (well, maybe it’s Harry, but probably magic), and Harry settles in on the bed near his feet while he shoves himself up against the headboard to gulp them down.

When he finishes the water Harry is still staring at him, so he tries on a grin and leans over to place the glass deliberately on the bedside table. “You gonna lecture me?” All he gets for his effort is an even more unimpressed look—Niall’s surprised Harry doesn’t actually roll his eyes—so he purses his lips and drops the cheery act. “Where’re the other lads then?”

At that Harry finally looks away. “Louis’ asleep, I think, and Zayn’s trying to cheer Liam up. He’s…a bit of a mess.”

“A mess? What…” _What did I do? Was that me?_ Niall focuses for a moment, lacing and unlacing his hands nervously, and all he remembers is an alley and an elevator, but something else must’ve happened. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

A sharp look is sent his way, and Harry’s eyes are as dark green as Niall’s ever seen them. “Don’t apologize unless you mean it.”

“ _What?_ ” he asks again, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. After a moment it comes back to him, fuzzily, too many shots and Harry’s panicked expression and his own hot tears and Liam holding him and then half-carrying him down the hallway. He feels like a complete arse for it, but he hopes he can play it off as another drunken mistake. “Of course I mean it. I fucked up with you and Liam and I’m sorry you had to…deal with me like that. Again. Hate to be a bother.”

Harry has his sad, searching eyes on, the ones that remind Niall of a deer, and he wants to crawl into a hole to hide from all the things Liam definitely told him. “We’re _all_ worried about you, Niall,” he says, sounding strangely confused, though there’s still an undercurrent of anger. “It’s not about—we just worry about you, a _lot_ , you know, especially these past few weeks, ’cause you keep _doing_ this. Do you even remember puking last night?”

Niall’s eyes widen. That would explain why his mouth tastes like a dead raccoon. Liam must’ve been there and cleaned him up. With the way they’re affected, the other three may as well have been there too, rubbing his back and wiping away his tears. It’s the one bad part of being so close to them: they always end up dealing with his shit, no matter how deep he tries to bury it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop trying. “Look, I know I’ve been on the piss lately, but I’ll, I won’t drink s’much next time, how about that? You can gimme a limit, a low one. Two drinks, or one if you want. I don’t care.”

Harry actually _laughs_ , but it’s this strange sad bark of a laugh whose meaning Niall can’t quite translate.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny?”

“Nothing about this is _funny_ , Niall. That’s the problem! You’re acting like this is just some—some _thing_ you do!” Niall rolls his eyes at Harry’s inarticulate anger and immediately regrets it, because it only spurs him on: Harry clenches his jaw, pushes himself up off the bed, and starts pacing back and forth across the hotel room. “You know it as well as I do—this isn’t about the _alcohol_ , Niall. When your dad asks me to look out for you, it’s not because he thinks you can’t stomach a few bloody _pints_! Wanna know what I think?”

Harry has stopped at the foot of the bed to glare at him some more. Niall sinks into the mattress a little, afraid to respond.

“I think you’re getting wasted to avoid your problems and using the booze as an excuse to keep us from asking what’s wrong. And you think we care about you _so_ little that apparently, in _our_ minds, all this”—Harry sweeps his hands out in a grand, furious gesture—“could be part of some _fucking_ cartoon, ’cause you’re the _Irish_ one, and puking all over your best mates, that’s just what you do for _fun_ , right?”

The fact that Harry’s so _right_ makes it nearly impossible to meet his questioning gaze. Within seconds Niall’s staring down at his hands where they’re pulling at the blanket, biting the inside of his cheek, and trying to focus on concocting a believable lie through the haze of self-loathing in his head, because he can’t lose their trust, not like this, even if he doesn’t know what they see in him anymore.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he starts, still watching his hands as his nails dig into his palms. Harry scoffs, and his blatant disbelief gives Niall the willpower to look back up (because he really _is_ sorry, for _everything_ ). There’s a telltale crease between Harry’s eyebrows now and he’s dragging a shaky hand through his hair, but he’s also listening, and Niall takes full advantage.

“I really am, though. I didn’t mean for it to come out that way, like I think y’lads don’t care—’cause I _know_ you do. I just…I hate worryin’ you, and it’s easy to act like it’s just about…about havin’ too much fun.” He chuckles a little at the irony of that phrase and looks back down at his fidgeting hands, not sure how to continue.

“Okay,” Harry says slowly, and Niall feels him sit back down on the other side of the bed. “So what’s it really about?”

“I’ve just been—” Niall freezes up, suddenly, because he’s still looking away from Harry’s concerned, expectant face, and for a second all the pressure is gone and alternatives are free to play out in his head, answers full of words like _panicking_ , _hating_ , _cutting_ , _bleeding_ —

“You’ve been…what? Niall?”

 _Snap the fuck out of it. He’d never look at you the same_.

“I’m just homesick, really.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, like Niall knew he would.

“I don’t know what else to call it. I’ve been so tired, like—I’m hardly sleeping, just a few hours a night, and when I _do_ sleep I keep…dreamin’ about home, about Theo, how I haven’t even fuckin’ _met_ him.”

He hasn’t had a dream in months at this point, actually, even though he used to dream all the time—but Harry doesn’t need to know that.

“And sometimes that makes me hate bein’ away, even if it’s just for a minute, and then I hate meself for thinkin’ that, ’cause o’course I should be here, ’cause I fuckin’ _love_ bein’ here, and this really shouldn’t be so hard to handle, especially for me, and even when I call me mum I end up mad at her ’cause I don’t wanna miss her anymore, or ’cause I don’t miss her enough—” He stops to catch his breath and angrily rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. Drinking just helps me stop thinkin’ about all that.”

He hates that he’s telling half-truths, but he knows Harry wouldn’t believe him if he spewed out another bogus excuse. And he seems to believe him; he’s crawling over to the headboard and nudging his shoulder now.

“Why haven’t you been tellin’ us about this?” When Niall shrugs, Harry goes on: “And what do you mean, _especially_ for you? Compared to us? What makes you think we have a harder time?”

Niall doesn’t like the familiar prickling feeling under his skin and behind his eyes. He feels like a live wire, because _of course_ he has it easier, and _of course_ Harry has to pinpoint the most truthful part of everything he said and pick at it.

“It’s nothin’, I mean. Zayn obviously has it worst, right, no question.” Harry nods, frowning a little. “And Liam’s always gettin’ hate for being oblivious on Twitter and other nonsense, and you’ve got the extra fame to deal with, plus you and Louis have the Larry bullshit fuckin’ with you all the time. Like—and that’s just a few things. I’ve got the least on my plate, you know? Smooth sailing. Can’t complain.”

“I mean, first off I think you’re wrong, mate, but like—even if that was true, that wouldn’t mean you actually _can’t complain_. Right? Hey, stop that!” Niall flinches, but Harry’s just grabbing at his hands, which Niall had unconsciously closed into fists again. There are blood-red indents on his palms when Harry presses them flat, and a furrow appears between Harry’s eyebrows at the sight. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Niall freezes up a little at that, but he manages to murmur an apology and flip his hands over to hide the marks. Harry continues on, oblivious: “Anyway, come _on_. You get hate too, and you get awful stage fright and claustrophobia and…and nightmares.” Niall scowls at that, but Harry just lowers his voice a little, as if to appease him with a secret. “Plus you’ve got your bad knee, and you haven’t been home for longer than a few weeks in _years_ , and your newborn nephew hasn’t even _met_ you yet. And even if none of those things were true, it wouldn’t matter, alright? Fame’s just… _fame_. If you’re not happy…” Niall watches as Harry rubs a thumb over the cross tattoo on his right hand. His knee is gently nudging Niall’s. “Then you’re not happy.”

Niall purses his lips, feeling far closer to tears than he’d like. _I’m not happy? I’m not happy. I’m not—_

“And I know you’re not telling me everything, I know—no, listen, I know you’re not just homesick. Don’t try and deny it, and don’t feel bad, just. I know it’s why you’ve been so fucking distant lately, and it’s why you were so quiet after we left that shop yesterday, and it’s why you’re freezing up now, like you’re afraid to even _breathe_ wrong. What I’m trying to say is…I’m here, we’re _all_ here, and we’ll still _be_ here when you realize you don’t have to do this alone.”

As a precaution Niall rubs at his eyes, nods, and tries on another smile. “Thanks,” he says, because it’s the right thing to say, the _only_ thing he can say without lying again. “Thank you.”

~

Niall lets himself believe that’s the end of it, because the lads have some kind of silent agreement to give him space over the next few days. Everything feels normal, and the fact that he told Harry a half-truth makes it easier for him to lie to himself. He manages to block out all urges to hurt himself through their first three nights in LA, despite having a lot of alone time in the Bel Air mansion they’ve rented out for the week. He tells himself it really is just homesickness, and decides he’ll be fine once he gets back to Mullingar in a couple days.

This farce of a decision, of course, has no effect on anything. His (latest) downward spiral starts the morning of their last show in LA, when Louis complains that they’ve been taking the same route to the venue every day. They end up going a different way that afternoon, at Louis’ insistence, and it takes them past a massive graffiti painting of an arm and a knife and a gaping self-inflicted wound with four numbers inside it: 1 9 1 5. Niall can’t look away, even after the others have commented on it—Harry’s _smart way to send a message_ , and a few swear words from Zayn and Louis, and an angry comment from Liam— _Liam_ , who Niall honestly expected to be clueless—about _genocide_ and _over a million_ and _denial._

And Niall—Niall Googles _1915 genocide_ and stays quiet, because he is nineteen years old and he had never even _heard_ of the Armenian genocide until today. He can’t stop thinking about it, his own ignorance and all that _blood_ , a massive open wound that hasn’t been allowed to heal.

Apparently the lads see a difference in him, but Niall doesn’t realize they’ve noticed until they’re all on stage. Because it’s electric as always, all laughter and glinting eyes and giddiness, but the space they’d been giving him is gone; someone is always close by in case he trips, or in case he doesn’t. He can’t stop grinning when they do the Twitter questions, even when he fails at doing the worm again ( _not cool_ ), and even when Liam pulls at his sparse chest hair ( _really not cool_ ), because there are countless eyes on him and it makes him want to reach out and touch, not curl up and hide.

It doesn’t last, of course; the stage is a different world, and its protective façade drops away on the drive back. Before they’ve even escaped the traffic around the Staples Center Niall finds his thoughts returning to the genocide and to that painting, to that deep bleeding cut, and finally, with a level of self-hatred that terrifies him, to the nearly blank canvas that is his body.

Around him the lads talk animatedly about their plans for the night; Liam, Louis and Zayn are getting tattoos with Eleanor and Sophia, and Harry is asking them for advice about what he and Niall should do with the whole mansion to themselves. Niall tries to stay present, nodding every once in a while and laughing when Harry laughs, but the red haze in his head doesn’t go away. And when Harry proposes that they play drunk hide-and-seek while the others are gone, Niall knows with sudden clarity exactly how the night will go.

He and Harry will get wasted and stumble around the house in the dark, and they’ll laugh really loud and it’ll echo everywhere, and for a while he’ll have a lot of fun. But blood and pain and selfishness will keep rattling around in the back of his mind, and he’ll get more and more anxious and angry and sick of himself the later it gets, and when Harry eventually nods off on a hard surface, Niall will retreat to lock himself in his room, drunkenly slice himself open too many times, and (probably) pass out before he can clean up the blood.

Unfortunately that’s what happens, more or less. They drink and hide and seek and stumble, and his head buzzes with a combination of glee and misery, and the minute Harry lies down Niall takes off and fumbles around in a daze for his new pocketknife. It’s terrifying, because instead of bringing the usual relief, every press of the blade becomes another bolt in his coffin of self-loathing. He finds himself wanting more, wanting _deeper_ , because he has no right to the pain, because he _deserves_ it for being such a selfish bastard, and he ends up cutting both hips, not just his dominant side, and even then everything is still too numb, and he’s still too drunk, and it’s still _too much_ — 

So really his prediction was remarkably accurate, down to the drying blood on his sheets. There’s just one very small, very important difference:

He forgets to lock his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: that Armenian Genocide graffiti actually exists in LA, or at least it did when I was there in February 2016. It kind of made me relapse, but it's still an incredible painting.


	4. reeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t get it,” Harry says quietly from his right, probably addressing the other lads, “Is it drugs?”
> 
> Niall lets out a watery laugh. “Wow, Harry,” he mumbles, his voice a bit muffled by his palms. “No, it’s not drugs.”
> 
> “Then what the bloody hell is it?”

Louis’ voice is a reedy, anxious whisper, and it’s the first sound Niall hears when he surfaces from sleep. Most of the words go in one ear and out the other and Niall doesn’t think they’re meant for his ears, but he’s curious, so he keeps his eyes closed and tries to eavesdrop. It takes a minute or so of listening and fighting to stay awake, but eventually the sounds become more than just background noise.

“…why he flinched, and he made up a whole story about running into something onstage? And I just believed him. I didn’t think—fuck, how did I miss this?”

“Don’t blame yourself, Tommo,” Liam says, and he sounds upset too, but more subdued, like he’s keeping the feeling at arm’s length. “We all saw it, didn’t we, the way he’s been acting. Just didn’t know what it was.” There’s a strangely long pause before Liam adds, “We oughta wake him up, mate.”

Niall shifts a little, trying to string the conversation together, one statement to the next. He feels cool air on his chest and his knees and realizes groggily that he’s both hung-over and cold. Must’ve drunkenly kicked the duvet off last night.

When Louis speaks again his voice is softer, a half-whisper that Niall still hears loud and clear. “Sure, but let’s get Harry and Zayn first.”

“But—I don’t know, Lou.” Liam sounds more agitated now, and the raw fear in his voice sets Niall on edge. Something is very, very wrong. “I know we’re his mates, but wouldn’t that be a lot, all four of us seeing him like this and askin’ him to talk about it? I’d right freak out.”

_No. Fuck, please no—_

“That’s not the bloody _point_ , Liam, it’s—he’ll freak out no matter what, but it’s on us to know what to say! _They’re_ the calm ones. We’ll just make this worse! I’ll yell and you’ll ramble and—”

“But we’re here already,” Liam counters, his voice at its normal volume now. “This is just how it turned out! How would we decide who stays and who goes, anyway? And what if he wakes up before Zayn and Harry get here? Or before we have time to explain? Have you thought about that?”

Niall decides he doesn’t feel bad about eavesdropping. He kind of relishes it, actually, in an angry, terrified way, considering that they snuck into his room and proceeded to discover his most awful secret. But it doesn’t matter anymore, because he can’t hear Louis’ reply over the rush in his ears. There’s probably blood on his pants, and he doesn’t remember where he left the pocketknife, but maybe they haven’t seen undeniable proof yet; maybe he can concoct a lie that will prove he didn’t actually—

“Well if we’d woken him up already, maybe we’d actually be _helping_ him instead of arguing about who’s better at it!”

 _Nice one, Liam_. Niall rolls over onto his stomach to hide his face while he tries to think. And everything’s fine for a second; they go on bickering, not seeming to suspect he’s awake, and he comes up with a couple excuses that might actually work, both of which involve drunkenly falling on sharp objects. But then he notices the sting on his left side, the familiar pull of barely-scabbed cuts rubbing against the sheets, and he thinks about how annoying it is when his boxers slip down his hips overnight, and _oh_. _Oh, shit._

_No way out._

“ _Alright_ ,” Louis is declaring loudly, playing a very sarcastic peacemaker, “Fine, you ridiculous fucker, _no one is going to leave_.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Niall grumbles hoarsely, and the room goes dead silent.

_Fuck. Okay._

He rolls to his feet in a rush of adrenaline and forces out a shaky laugh upon seeing their shocked expressions. He’s pretty sure he’s never been so scared in his life, and he can feel his hangover starting to catch up with him, but he refuses to sit and wait for his own execution. “You lads can stay in my room all day if you want, but I’d like to see the light of day at some point.”

He quickly pulls his bloodstained boxers up over the red mess on his hips before stepping between his bandmates to get to his duffel bag. He grabs the first clothes he sees, pale blue jeans and a T-shirt, and drags them on in what may be a record amount of time. And yeah, so he’s not actually looking _at_ Liam or Louis, just between them, and sure, he might be grinding his teeth a little at the way Louis is slowly moving toward him, and okay, maybe he wants to claw his skin off when he accidentally catches Liam’s eye, but they’re in his personal space, and they’re kind of almost staring at his junk, and _neither of them has said anything_ , so. That’s maybe an excuse.

“You’d be missin’ out on breakfast though,” he adds as he searches for his phone, needing to fill up the awkward silence. “Just puttin’ that out there.” He looks over at them and flashes a fake grin that edges on painful. They both wince; it’s plain as day that they see straight through him. He feels his face heat up.

“Niall, please, would you just sit down for a minute?” Liam’s probably all sad puppy right now, but Niall wouldn’t know; he’s turning away to pick up his phone from where it’d fallen beside the bed. When he presses the home button he’s shocked to find it’s already 10:38. He usually wakes up early after a night of heavy drinking, thirsty and nauseous and hungry all in one, with alcohol still churning in his gut. _Fuck, had to be today that I finally sleep in_. “Niall?”

He turns away from the bed and ignores their pleading, hopeful faces, choosing instead to walk toward the door. And he knows neither of them is accustomed to backing down—especially not when it comes to protecting friends, protecting _him_ —but he still freezes in surprise when Louis’ hand closes around his wrist. 

“Niall,” he says, soft and low and sounding like he might cry, but Louis _doesn’t cry_. And that’s too fucking much. That’s _it_.

“No, _no_ , you don’t get to—” He yanks his arm from Louis’ grip and turns to face them. They’re looking at him like he’s broken and sneaking glances at each other, probably regretting the fact that they didn’t actually discuss what they were going to say. They’re so worried and perfect; _everything_ was perfect, and he knows with sudden clarity that he can’t show them this ugly thing he’s become. “I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?” Niall blinks away the tears that are welling up and starts backing away, step by step by step. “It’s just a stupid thing I do and it’s none of your bloody business, so sod the _fuck_ off!”

He turns around, pushes the door open, and walks straight into a yawning Zayn, who has clearly overheard at least the tail end of Niall’s outburst if the nervous look on his face is any indication. They stare at each other in surprised silence for a split second before Niall remembers he’s supposed to be running away. He shoves past him before he can change his mind, leaving behind Zayn’s bewildered “what’s goin’ on?” and a lot of swears from Louis that fade into nonsense as he gets farther down the hall.

He finds himself stumbling down the stairs and into the main foyer, because he has nowhere else to fucking _go_. (They have the Teen Choice Awards today, so if he left he’d just have to come right back.) It turns out Harry is passed out and drooling on the sofa, reeking of alcohol but still somehow innocent as ever. If Niall was smart he’d probably go as far away as he’s allowed, out by the pool or holed up in one of the back rooms, but he’s not smart, he’s never been smart, and leaving Harry feels like giving up on normalcy. Because Harry will never see him the same way once he knows, and _he doesn’t have to know, does he? How is everything already so bollixed up?_

So Niall sits on an arm of the sofa and watches Harry breathe and doesn’t think about what just happened, even a little bit, for what feels like half an hour, though it’s probably only five minutes. But soon enough the lads’ voices start getting louder, closer, which means they’re coming to tell Harry about Niall’s failure as a human being, and he’s suddenly propelled out of his daze. Maybe it’s the shock of what’s surely about to happen making him a little reckless, but it seems like a rational idea.

“Hey. Harry! Earth to Styles. Are you in there? Wakey wakey.”

By the time the three musketeers reach the base of the staircase, Niall has a very grumpy Harry sitting up on the couch and sipping on a glass of cold water. Louis, Zayn and Liam are walking three abreast with hardly any space between them, looking like they would fit right in at a funeral march. But with a hung-over Harry as his shield, Niall has a renewed sense of confidence. He gives them some very threatening looks and points at Harry, who is delightfully oblivious:

“And I won the last round too,” he’s mumbling, “You should’ve let me sleep till at least eleven.”

“We need to _leave_ at eleven, Harry.”

“I don’ care.” Harry pushes his tangled hair out of his face to take another sip of water and promptly descends into a coughing fit. There is a nearly audible silence from the rest of the room as Niall murmurs reassurances and pats him gently on the back; he feels a sadistic twinge of happiness at the fact that Harry’s pain is actually keeping the others from saying anything.

“What’re you three so grim about?”

 _Thanks a lot, arsehole_. Thankfully the lads don’t seem to know what to do with the question; Liam is watching Harry with wide eyes, Zayn is scanning Niall with a troubled frown, and Louis’s eyes are darting frantically between Harry and Niall.

“Come on, mate,” Liam finally pleads, looking at Niall now. “You know we’ve got to talk about this.”

“We really don’t, _mate_ ,” Niall replies harshly, glaring at the weird abstract painting of fruit on the wall behind Liam to avoid his piercing stare. “Matter o’ fact, we could just _move on_ with our lives. It’s a solid option, don’t you think? All in favor?”

“ _No!_ ” Louis interjects before Niall even has time to twitch in support of his own idiotic proposition. “No one’s in favor, and nobody’s _moving on_. If you don’t tell Harry we will, and then you will _talk_ to us, you absolute _wanker_.”

Niall feels his face heat up and cringes a little. _I couldn’t be more pathetic_.

“I think what Louis _means_ to say,” Zayn adds, nudging the man in question with his elbow, “is we care about you and we’re scared, ’cause you’ve been doing this right under our noses and you’re still acting like nothing’s wrong.”

“Okay, wait,” Harry cuts in, “Would somebody please fill me in here?”

This can’t actually be happening.

“It’s nothing, I swear, nothing’s—” Niall takes a deep breath. Breaking down right now would kind of defeat the purpose of lying in the first place. “They’re just fooling around, ignore ’em. Here, let me get you some water.” He moves to stand up, to get the fuck _away_ , but before he can take a step Harry has grabbed his right arm and pulled him back down to the couch.

“You already did,” Harry deadpans, holding up the glass in his hand, and his tone leaves no room for argument. “Would you stay put? What’s this about?”

Niall slouches a little, looks down at his lap, and wonders if his left leg has been bouncing up and down this whole time. From the corner of his eye, he sees the other lads moving to sit around him and Harry, Liam and Louis on the coffee table and Zayn beside him on the couch. _Brilliant_.

“What’ve you been doing?” Harry asks, gentler this time. “Niall?”

He shakes his head and then slouches some more, dropping his face into his hands. There’s a light pressure on his back, probably Zayn’s hand, but it doesn’t do much to set him at ease. His mind is reeling and he can feel a headache coming on, set off by a combination of stale alcohol and unshed tears. He can’t talk about this, he just _can’t_ , but there’s clearly no getting out of it.

 _Correction:_ now _I couldn’t be more pathetic._

“I don’t get it,” Harry says quietly from his right, probably addressing the other lads, “Is it drugs?”

Niall lets out a watery laugh. “Wow, Harry,” he mumbles, his voice a bit muffled by his palms. “No, it’s not drugs.”

“Then what the bloody hell is it? And how did the lads even find out?”

“It wasn’t intentional, we just...” Zayn falters; Niall has turned his head to give him a death stare.

Liam, of course, immediately jumps to his defense: “Come off it, Niall—he has every right to know!”

With that, Niall’s last bit of willpower gives out. “Christ, _fine_ ,” he huffs, leaning back into the couch cushions and looking up at the ceiling. “Just tell him then.” There are a couple seconds of tense silence during which Niall assumes a lot of looks are exchanged, but he wouldn’t know; he’s struggling to see the pattern on the living room ceiling fan. It really is high up there.

Zayn is the one who breaks the silence, and he does so with a finality only he can pull off: “Yes, you, Liam.”

“Oh. Er…” Liam clears his throat. “Yeah, so he hasn’t told us much. Lou and I just snuck into his room, to wake him up, you know, and we were about to jump on him when we saw—well, first we saw something on the sheets, sort of dark, that looked like blood, and then we noticed these—these cuts and scars all over his hips.” Harry sucks in a breath next to him, and Niall can feel his heart beating in his throat. “…and close together,” Liam is saying, “like…orderly, and pretty deep.”

Louis quickly picks up where Liam left off: “But since we’re bleeding twats, we started squabbling and woke him up. Then he said it’s just a _thing_ he does and told us to sod off, and Zayn was—” His story is tragically cut short by a cacophony of text notifications. The message has been sent to all of them, so naturally they all look to Liam, who groans in protest but gets his phone out anyway.

“Shit, it’s eleven. Paul’s waiting outside to drive us to rehearsal.”

Niall nearly cheers in excitement. “Alright lads, let’s get a move on!” None of them say anything but they all look a little incredulous, especially Liam, who looks like he’s waking up from a confusing dream—although that may just be his face in its resting state. “Look, this isn’t as bad as you think. I don’t want to off meself or some shite. I just had a bad night, okay? Can’t we talk about this later?”

“Fine,” Harry says eventually, after a lot of silent communication with Zayn that Niall does his best to ignore. “But first you’ve got to promise to start being honest with us again.”

 _No, no, and no_. “I—erm—” They’re all staring; his hesitation is clearly speaking magnitudes, and it only gets worse the longer he waits. “ _Okay_ , God. I promise. Can we go now?”

He thinks for a moment that he’s home free—literally _home_ _free_ , too, since they’re going home right after Teen Choice—but as soon as he stands up he finds himself smothered by four chests, eight arms, a chin on his shoulder, a nose against his cheek, and a lot of curly hair in his ear. The hug isn’t altogether unwelcome, but it makes him a little sick with himself, and not just because he’s still hung over.

It’s just that he’s a terrible person; he fully intends to break his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't entirely happy with this one, but I couldn't figure out what needed changing, so I decided to hell with it and posted it anyway.
> 
> Also, Season 2 Episode 2 of Being Mary Jane gave me the idea for the part where Niall tries to find an excuse to get up and leave and Harry pulls him back - there's a great confession scene in that episode!


End file.
